


Playing the Immortal Game

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1980s, Chases, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Europe, F/F, F/M, Hypnotism, Master/Slave, Porn With Plot, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 12:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: When a young American chess genius is hypnotized for sex and then to lose her championship game, she and her friends set out across Europe to confront her hypnotist.





	1. The Only Game You Need to Study

**Author's Note:**

> A loyal reader requested this ending, which is a unique writing challenge...

** _Telavi, The Soviet Union_ **

** _April, 1988_ **

I finish my early morning run in the brisk mountain air, do my stretches, then hurry back into the _Hotel Tela_. I’m sweaty. The other guests wrinkle their noses as I pass, but I ignore them. I’m a good mood today.

“Hey kids,” I say playfully once I slip into Room 315, our shabby home for the tournament. “You guys should have seen the sun over the plains this morning… Absolutely gorgeous.”

Wendy grunts, still yet to rise from her bed. And Cynthia, while technically awake, looks at me with huge bags under her eyes. She does not smile.

“Where’s Ver?” I ask, moving towards the tiny bathroom.

“Out…” is all Cyn can manage. That girl is badly in need of coffee.

I give up on conversation. At least there’s enough hot water for a descent shower.

*** *** ***

After I towel off and dress, it’s a Labor of Hercules to get Wendy and Cyn up for the day. “_Com’on_ you guys,” I complain for the umpteenth time. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Give me a break, Nikki,” Wendy snaps at me. “Your match isn’t until Thursday. We can-“

The door opens, and Veronica, my oldest, bestest friend, bustles in. She’s grinning from ear to ear. “Its out!” she crows, a newspaper in her hands. “I got it!”

I can’t resist a smile myself. I know Veronica so well. In fact, I never call her “_Veronica_,” she’s affectionally “_Ver_” to me now. I know at a glance that Ver rose from bed the second I slipped out for my run. That she showered, went for a walk herself, then waited impatiently at the hotel front desk for the post to arrive. We have our newspapers shipped to us directly.

Instantly, Wendy, Cyn, and I are completely awake and swarm about her. “Lemme see, lemme see!” Cyn insists.

Ver laughs, sitting on one of the double beds. She opens the newspaper, an international edition of The London Times. She tosses aside all sections but Life and Arts, then thumbs through the first few pages. “Ah!” she exclaimed, “there we are!”

The four of us gather close, squinting at the black-and-white photo and article at the bottom of page E-17:

** _AN AMERICAN CHALLENGES EXPECTATIONS AT WOMAN’S INTERNATIONAL CHESS CHAMPIONSHIP_ **

** _Venice, Italy_ **

** _By Flavio DiMarco, Reuters International_ **

** _American Chess Champion Nikki McMasters could have been a beauty queen. At a striking 5’ 9”, twenty-two years old, with flowing red hair and a sleek but shapely runner’s body, this gorgeous resident of the USA immediately made this reporter feel very welcome when we meet to discuss chess and her hopes for the 1988 Women’s Chess Tournament._ **

** _Nikki’s task is not an easy one. In 1927, the World Chess Federation (FIDE) began hosting the Woman’s Tournament, and in all that time, no American has ever advanced to the top tier. In fact, no Westerner has succeeded at the tournament since Vera Menchik won for Britain in 1939._ **

** _“I try not to think about the East-versus-West history of the tournament,” Nikki says easily, tossing her hair as she and I talk. One gets the sense that very little phases this gorgeous woman, who is might easily be the most beautiful FIDE player in the history of chess._ **

“Why does this guy keep talking about how pretty you are?” Cyn says distastefully. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Maybe that’s a sexist editorial thing?” guesses Wendy. “Editors assume that male readers won’t care unless the story is about a pretty girl.”

“Whatever,” scoffs Ver. “This reporter, he was pretty cute himself. In fact-”

Wendy, reading ahead, interrupts: “**_Omigod_**, he mentions **_me?!?_**”

** _Nikki is preparing to leave for Telavi, a small Georgian town in the Soviet Union. Here is where the 1988 Woman’s Tournament will take place, and this American beauty might have to match wits against Tatiana Alexeyevna, the reigning champion. I have to ask Nikki, “Aren’t you nervous?”_ **

** _“Oh, of course not,” Nikki says, her green eyes smiling at me. “I have a top chess team behind me. My chess coach and second, Veronica Hanson, is the US’s third-youngest Grandmaster, and could probably play in the tournament herself. And I have Wendy Zseles, my researcher, and Cynthia Razin, my technology analyst. You couldn’t ask for a stronger support team.”_ **

** _“Researcher? Technology Analyst?” I reply, somewhat amused. “Isn’t that a little much, just to win a board game?”_ **

** _“You don’t understand,” Nikki tells me patiently, but with a dazzling smile. “In the West, chess is a pastime, a game for the intellectually curious. But just a game. In the Communist world, however, chess is almost a religion. When the Soviets realized they couldn’t economically or academically compete against America or Europe, they seized upon chess as an arena to prove themselves. Children in the USSR receive chess classes as an equal part of their primary education. So winning these tournaments is a source of obsessive national pride for them.”_ **

** _“Which is why they were so upset when American Bobby Fischer took the men’s International Championship in 1972,” I comment._ **

** _“Exactly,” agrees Nikki. “So to compete, I need a cutting-edge team supporting me.”_ **

** _I’m still a little skeptical. “Yeah, but a researcher? And a tech girl?”_ **

** _“Wendy can search thousands of recorded chess games and find the one game that demonstrates a key move,” Nikki boasts. ”She can also review every Tatiana Alexeyevna game and help me spot weaknesses. See, here’s a list of her published papers.” She hands me Wendy Zseles’ CV._ **

** _I quickly review Cynthia’s credentials; she’s indeed an impressive researcher._ **

** _“Okay, so what about the tech girl?” I ask._ **

** _“Modern technology is reinventing chess,” Nikki informs me. “I’m actually using this miniature tape recorder to record this interview.”_ **

** _Well, if Nikki McMaster’s beauty matches her brains, the other ladies at Telavi have much to fear in this American Chess Champion._ **

Above the article is a tiny photo of Ver and me, sitting at a chessboard, pretending to have a cutthroat game.

Cyn makes a face. “The reporter guy refers to me as a ‘tech girl.’ Fucker. I went to MIT.”

“He is a sexist piece of shit,” Wendy agrees.

“Oh, c’mon you guys,” I sigh. “He’s a guy’s guy. Macho, but harmless.”

Cyn, skimming the article again, remarks, “Actually, Nikki, he’s going to be interviewing you again. Later this week, in fact. Now that you’re officially Alexeyevna’s challenger, there’s more interest in you back home.”

“Nice,” I say, pleased. Its extremely rare I get any press attention.

“**_Barf,_**” opines Cyn.

“Okay, you guys,” I say, taking control. “We have work to do. Cyn, get your gear set up. Wendy, get your notes. I want to play that Hamppe v Meitner endgame a few more times.”

*** *** ***

The girls and me spend the next two days just running chess drills. That’s what makes a champion. When you’re in training for a tournament, you drill, drill, drill. You re-memorize all the game openings and closings. You replay famous tournament games. You completely memorize your opponent’s last hundred games. Then you drill some more.

But annoyingly, I’m not totally getting in the zone. When the girls and I rerun the 1858 Morphy v Isouard match, I miss the forced mate three times in a row.

“No, no, no,” Ver frowns, when I move my queen to B5. “Why are you reinforcing your bishop here? He’s already okay. Better to strike from B8 and put me in check.”

Cyn studies my position on the board, then nods. “She’s right.”

I stare at the chessboard, my calculations falling apart in my head. “Oh,” I grunt. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Disgusted with myself, I slouch in my chair. “Shit.”

We are sitting in what passes for a sidewalk café in Telavi, ignoring the curious stares of the locals. I suppose we might be observed by my Soviet competitors, but right now, I don’t care. I needed the fresh air.

“Look, look,” Ver says quickly, resetting the board, “don’t let this get you down. Your fundamentals are solid. And your attacking style is way too unconventional. Alexeyevna hasn’t ever anticipated someone who approaches the way you play.”

I chew on the plastic swizzle stick from my coffee, unimpressed.

“Just – please – remember what I’m always telling you,” Ver presses. “Be open to new possibilities!”

“Ver’s right,” insists Wendy, obviously trying to cheer me up. “Alexeyevna is a chess-playing machine, but she has no imagination. You throw her off in the first ten moves, and she’ll never recover.”

Ver glances at her watch. “Besides, we have to take a break,” she announces. “Remember your second interview with that Italian reporter? He should be here soon.”

The interview? That’s now? I’d completely forgotten.

I straighten in my seat, quickly checking myself with the pocket mirror in my purse. “How do I look?” I say to my galpals.

“Like a chess champion,” smirks Cyn.

Oh shit. That frumpy?

“Relax,” Cyn grins. “You look great. Well-rested. Besides, this guy looooooves you, remember? He raved about how **_gorgeous_** you are, in print. Just bat those eyelashes at him, and he’ll write whatever you want.”

“Yeah,” seconds Ver. She’s also patting her own hair.

“You want me and Cyn to stay?” Wendy offers.

I pause, considering. Wendy looks restless. She probably wants to get out of here for a while.

“No, you chicks take off,” I allow. “Ver and I can handle the interview. Go and take a break.”

Gratefully, Cyn and Wendy collect their stuff, and then retreat to the hotel.

*** *** ***

Flavio DiMarco is exactly as I remember him: **_cuuuuute!_** Short, skinny, nice build, thick, black hair, square jaw, veeeeeeery pretty blue eyes. He’s sexy without putting any effort into his appearance; wish I could turn on the charm like that. When he arrives at our café table, the Italian reporter is wearing a light black jacket, sky blue shirt beneath, stylish jeans, and, of course, Italian shoes. He should model.

“Hello ladies,” Flavio says grandly, his Italian accent barely audible. He shakes Ver’s hand, and then mine. I note the firmness of his grip, and I secretly like him a little more.

The three of us make small talk as the reporter gets out his ancient tape recorder. He sets it up next to the chessboard. “Did you have a pleasant flight here?” he asks good-naturedly.

“Oh, just fine,” I smile at him. Actually, our World War II-era puddle jumper rattled and wobbled and belched on the entire flight from Turkey; it was a pretty horrid experience. But I don’t want to start our interview by complaining.

“Okay, then,” Flavio says, making final adjustments on his recorder. He signals the waitress for a coffee, then presses RECORD. “April 19th, Telavi,” he says into the microphone. “Interview with American chess champion Nikki McMasters.”

“Well then,” he continues, now using his conversational voice and flashing me a wide grin. “Let’s talk chess. Since I last saw you, Nikki, you defeated Nana Rudenko and Elisaveta Gaprindashvili in tournament, officially making you the challenger to Tatiana Alexeyevna. I’ve heard that Penguin Random House has signed you for a book deal? Because in two weeks’ time, you could be the Women’s World Chess Champion.” He paused for effect. “How’s that feel?”

I blush a little. “Good, really,” I say.

“Modest,” flatters Flavio. “If I were in your position, I’d be bragging from the rooftops.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, lifting my coffee to my lips. Its still hot.

“So, since our last interview, I’ve been talking with chess experts around the world,” the reporter says grandly. “They have been following you very closely, and do you know why?”

“Nikki’s brilliant,” gushes Ver. Like me, she seems a little gaga over our Italian friend.

“I hear that word, _brilliant_, sure,” agreed Flavio. “But Nikki, most of the grandmasters admire you because of your unconventional style. Apparently the chess world hasn’t seen a player like you since… well, ever. How do you do it?”

Flavio’s leaning forward now. I push aside thoughts of snogging with him, forcing my brain to think about chess. I **_love_** talking chess.

“Oh, there’s nothing unique about my style,” I say easily. I slide the chessboard between me and my interviewer. The pieces are all set up for a game. “You want to know my secret? Easy as pie to explain.”

“Nikki…” Ver says, warning me.

I wave away her concerns. If the Soviets haven’t figured out my approach to chess by now, nothing I’m about to say will help them.

“So when I began professionally training,” I tell Flavio, “my first chess coach introduced me to **_The Immortal Game_**.” I make a reverent pause here. “Have you heard of it?”

“Eh, no,” admits Flavio.

“June 21st, 1851,” I say grandly, my hands already moving pieces on the board. “Adolf Anderssen and Lionel Kieseritzky square off at the London Tournament, although this game was out of competition. Kieseritzky as Black is aggressive; Anderssen as White simply parries him for a while.”

“Wait,” the reporter says, staring at me as I move the pieces, zipping through the game. “You know this game by heart?”

“Nikki’s a chess prodigy,” Var says, jealous. “She’s memorized **_thousands_** of classic games.”

“This is the only game you need to study,” I assert. Finally, I pause. “So here we are at the end of Move 16. Doesn’t seem that remarkable, does it?”

Flavio studies the board. “I don’t really know chess,” he admits with a sheepish grin.

“Then think what pieces have been captured,” I tell him. “White has lost a bishop and a pawn; Black has lost two pawns.”

“…Okay,” Flavio agrees. He’s scrutinizing the board closely.

“Now watch what is captured next, okay?” I say, moving the pieces again.

I step through the game. In the next three moves, White has lost **_both_** rooks, and then three moves after that, loses his queen as well. Black’s losses are only three pawns.

“This is a famous game?” the Italian reporter asks, puzzled. “White is getting **_slaughtered_**.”

“Okay,” I say. “Now, here’s the next move.”

I move White’s remaining bishop to E7. Then I sit back, watching Flavio closely.

“Okay,” he says, studying the board. “So… that bishop puts Black’s king in check… right?”

Ver and I exchange a knowing glance, waiting for the epiphany.

“Wait!” Flavio said suddenly. “This is check**_mate!_** Checkmate! …Right?”

He rechecks all the pieces. “Yeah,” he says, surer of himself. “this is checkmate. The Black King can’t move there or there because that White Knight would get him… He’s fucked. Wow. I never saw that coming.”

“Neither did Kieseritzky,” I say. “That’s why he lost. See? White lured Black’s most powerful pieces to the opposite side of the board. Black is distracted as he gobbles up White’s rooks and queen. But at the same time, White’s less powerful pieces are sneaking up on the Black King. They get into position, and then…”

“Blam!” says Ver. “Anderssen sacrificed his queen and both rooks, yet still achieved a **_perfect_** mate. All in less than twenty-five moves.”

“Wow,” Flavio exclaims. He’s actually impressed.

“It’s the Immortal Game,” I say, leaning back to sip my coffee. “It’s the game that will live forever in Chess History.”

“But how does this help you?” Flavio asks, becoming the reporter once more. “Your opponents won’t replay this game for you.”

I shrug. “If Anderssen teaches us anything,” I say, “its that you have to exploit your opponent’s bad assumptions about you. Kieseritzky thought he was mopping the floor with Anderssen, right up until that last move.”

“So that’s what you do,” Flavio says, getting it now. “You see your opponents’ assumptions, and you-“

“Rip their lungs out,” Ver says proudly.

I’m embarrassed. “Ver…” I mumble, turning red.

Flavio laughs, clicking off the tape recorder. “Yes, very good. You make for great copy, you know that?”

*** *** ***

The three of us chat for a few more minutes, but the interview is over. Flavio is able to recommend some good restaurants. “There’s also a nice little park, just a few blocks south,” he adds. “Say, why don’t you and I take a stroll?”

He’s addressing only me. Not Ver.

“Oh,” I say, flattered. “Well…”

“We really should get back to chess drills,” Ver mutters. “Tatiana Alexeyevna is probably a few blocks away now, training like crazy.”

I glance between the expectant Flavio and my glowering coach. Ver is right, of course. I should be cramming like the devil before the first match tomorrow with Alexeyevna. I’ve seen Alexeyevna play; she’s brutal warrior.

“Aw, com’on,” grins Flavio. He extends a hand. “Just for a half hour. You’ll be back before you know it, grateful for taking a mental brake.”

Flavio’s teeth are extremely white. The muscles in his arms make him look rugged, yet civilized. I like how his black hair is perfectly combed back, save for that one strand that frames his face. I bet he smells like gentle musk and pine when you get close to him.

“It’ll just be a few minutes, Ver,” I promise, setting down my coffee. “Can you call Wendy and get her to pull the 1986 match between Alexeyevna and Bakhtadze? I want to study her King’s Defense on that one.”

Ver frowns at me.

*** *** ***

The air is cool but crisp. I like those towering trees which seem to grow everywhere here. In the distance, past the houses of Telavi, we can see farms and vineyards and even a medieval-looking castle in the distance. Its pleasant here.

To my delight, Flavio takes my hand as we stroll. He seems at ease, smiling quietly as we walk.

Man, I usually keep boys at a distance when we first meet. I get hit on a lot, mostly because men like my runner’s figure and many people stupidly think that a chess champion must be rich or something.

But… there’s just something about Flavio. I’m attracted to him, no doubt, but there’s something else that I can’t place which excites me about him. What is it? I’m not sure.

We turn a corner, and now I see the park. Tree-filled, with some nice shade and a few benches. I can hear children laughing, but not a soul is in sight. Flavio and I might have the place to ourselves.

“C’mon,” my date says to me, pulling me across the street.

After a few short steps, we are inside the artificial forest. Its cooler in here. I can’t see anyone anywhere.

“Yeah,” Flavio says softly, then gently pushes me against a tree.

He leans in, kissing me. His lips stun me, and for a moment, I am swept away. Oh, he’s a good kisser! Just first-rate. Although I’m surprised as fuck, I swoon and drink him in.

Flavio presses against me. I feel his body, especially his raging hard-on through his jeans. I’m getting hot and bothered myself. I hear my voice sigh a little, and I kiss him harder.

And then Flavio’s hands are on my hips, scurrying over my body. He cups my breasts, gently squeezing them in **_just_** the right away. I wonder if he can tell my nipples are erect underneath my bra.

Ohhhhhh, this is nice.

Wait, what am I doing?!? I’ve only met this man twice, for less than an hour, really. What do I know about him, except that he is Catnip for Women? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

This isn’t like me. I’ve never kissed before a second date. As a pro chess player, I’m traveling the world constantly, so I’ve never really had a boyfriend. I’m not one for one-night-stands, either. Whenever I hook up with a boy, its for really special occasions.

Well… this is a special occasion, I muse. I’m about to become a World Champion. The first American World Champion. After I win, no doubt I’ll be on the cover of Time and interviewed on Johnny Carson and will be truly famous. This may be my last chance to kiss a boy who didn’t know me before I made it big. Maybe…

Flavio’s hands have dipped down, and now he’s raising up my tee shirt. **_And_** my bra! I feel cold air on my boobs as he exposes them to the elements.

Oh God, this is happening so fast… I close my eyes and arch my back, slightly. I want Flavio to suck on my breasts. I want to feel his tongue on my nips. I’m surprised to feel how wet I’m getting.

As if reading my mind, Flavio’s head lowers. I moan contentedly as his lips deliver their sweet kisses.

*** *** ***


	2. Playing Tatiana Alexeyevna

It is the day of the tournament. A half an hour before the first match, in fact. I’m off-stage, in my private waiting room with Ver, Cyn, and Wendy. From here, I can hear the audience in the auditorium, murmuring as they take their seats.

Jesus, this is **_pressurous_**. The entire fucking Chess World is about to rivet their attention on the game I’m about to play. That twisty feeling in my guts is getting worse.

“Okay,” Ver says, also doing a lousy job of keeping it together. “Let’s run it again. If Alexeyevna opens with Queen’s Gambit, what do you do?”

“Ver,” I snap, “I’ll be okay. **_Please_** stop being a spaz.”

“I bet she opens with Queen’s Gambit,” mutters Ver, looking over her notebook yet again. “Either that, or King’s Indian Attack. She’s weird like that.”

I shoot an annoyed glare at my friend. Ver is freaking out worse than I am.

“Just be open to new possibilities, Nikki,” Ver says for the thousandth time. “New possibilities…!”

I don’t know why, but it suddenly occurs to me that if she wasn’t a chess coach, Ver would have made a great actress. She’s got the looks and body for it. I like how her brown hair curls into one big ponytail and then slinks around her elegant neck. Like it’s a serpent, or something. Ver’s pretty face scrunches up in concentration, but you can tell: she’s a looker.

There’s a ripple of applause from the tournament hall. That means Christine Torzewski, Chairwoman of FIDE’s Lady Division, has mounted the stage for some opening remarks. She’s a terrible public speaker, taking far too long to say a few things. I still have a half an hour before its showtime.

Cyn looks up from the gadget she is fiddling with. “Are you two ladies finished doing the pregame review?” she asks. “Because if so, I’d like to shut down the chess computer and stop recordings.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, yes, Jesus, yes-“

“No!” Ver insists. “I… I just want to go over-“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ver!” I snarl. “You’re gonna overwhelm me. I **_really_** need my head to be clear.”

We’re all on-edge. Waiting for the match is like waiting for a bomb to detonate.

“Okay,” Ver cringes. “But could we just look at-“

There’s a soft knock at the door. Probably a FIDE official to tell me that I have to be on in ten minutes or something.

Wendy opens the door, then says, “Oh…! Hi…” in surprise.

Ver, Cyn, and I look up. In the doorway is Flavio.

To my surprise, my heart leaps.

“Hey you,” I say, and break out into a smile.

“Ladies,” Flavio nods in greeting, letting himself into the room.

Right away, I can tell that my girlfriends are suspicious. Before these high-stakes matches, it is **_HIGHLY_** unusual for a guest to visit a player. That precious time before a game is needed to get oneself psychologically ready. Mental distractions can be fatal.

But… now that I’m looking at Flavio… I dunno, my heart just does a little flip-flop. I’m glad he’s here.

“I don’t want to intrude,” the reporter says quickly, putting up his hands. “Just wanted to drop by, to wish you luck.”

“Thanks,” I beam.

“I know,” he says, his voice playful, “that you totally don’t need it.”

Then Flavio locks eyes with me.

Suddenly, I feel impulsive.

“Girls, can you give us a minute?” I ask, not breaking Flavio’s gaze.

“Now?” Ver asks, sounding appalled. “But-“

“**_Just get the fuck out, okay?_**” I roar, suddenly not in the mood to be with my friends. Seriously, don’t they get that I need a little time just for me?

Cyn and Wendy gasp at my outburst. Ver’s expression goes slack.

I wince, realizing that I’ve just been a major bitch. “Sorry,” I mutter, still pissed. “Look… I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute, okay?”

The girls look among themselves… but they honor my wishes. Ver gives me a long, hard stare as she leaves the room.

The door clicks. I can hear Christine Torzewski yapping away on the stage.

Flavio and I are alone.

*** *** ***

“Hey,” my Italian crush says, moving to stand before me. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” I assert, although we both know I’m lying.

“You’re gonna… how do you Americans say? Kick butt,” Flavio tells me, his deep blue eyes searching mine.

I melt, just a little.

You know, when this tournament is over, I’m going to see if Flavio wants to get away for a weekend. Greece is only a few hours’ flight away. The two of us could be on a beach, sharing some wine…

“May I make a suggestion?” asks Flavio. He lifts two fingers of each hand to my temples and starts rubbing, just slightly.

“Sure,” I say.

“Concentration is everything in chess, no?” remarks Flavio. “You have excellent concentration. Excellent. Whatever you put your mind to, you can accomplish.”

I feel strangely calm, like nothing in the world should trouble me. Flavio’s fingertips, barely touching me, feel really soothing. I like it.

“That feels nice,” I tell him.

“I know,” the Italian says. “My mother used to do this for me, before I would sleep at night.”

“You must have slept well as a kid,” I joke.

Mmm. This is really, really nice. I have the weirdest urge to close my eyes.

Flavio begins mumbling something softly in Italian, at least I think its Italian. I don’t care. Its like that his eyes are gazing into mine, and all the world is calm and inviting.

My thoughts drift a bit…

*** *** ***

“There you go!” Flavio says happily. He releases his fingers and steps back.

I blink. Man, my mind really did wander. Just for a second or two, but… wow. I must have been more stressed that I thought.

“How do you feel?” asks my Italian friend.

Hmm. “Good,” I say truthfully. “I feel good.”

For no reason whatsoever, I smile.

“Wonderful,” Flavio grins. “You’re going to do great out there, I know it.”

My dopey smile gets wider. “You’re sweet.”

I turn my head, idly wondering what the time is.

“Hey,” Flavio says suddenly. “Don’t you have something to do?”

…What? What does he mean?

Oh.

Oh yeah.

I have to give Flavio a blow job.

I have to. I really, **_really_** need to give Flavio blow job, the biggest blow job of his life. Right now, right here.

I drop to my knees, my fingers reaching for my guest’s belt. With a few quick tugs, I undo it, and then unzip his fly. His cock is pushing against his silk underwear, and I can tell its **_HUGE_**. I smile again.

Flavio exhales happily as I extract Little Flavio. Oh, this is an enormous penis, full and erect and trembling with life. I lovingly stroke it in my fingers, regarding its purple beauty as it is a work of art. It looks delicious.

“Hey,” Flavio mumbles. “Open your top. I want to see the top of your tits.”

That seems reasonable. With one hand, I unbutton my blouse, pulling back the cloth so that my cleavage is visible.

“Nice,” grunts my Italian guest. “Okay. Now: suck me.”

My thoughts vanish. Gently holding his balls and the base of his shaft, I insert Flavio into my waiting mouth. Thank God I worked up a lot of saliva! I close my lips about his tip and caress him.

He tastes delightful! I’ve maybe given, I don’t know, ten blow jobs in my life, and Flavio’s cock is already my favorite. His texture is leathery but pleasant, and I like his flavor on my tongue. Yeeeeeah… I draw him in slowly, savoring this.

Then I slide him out, just as slowly, making sure to make love to his tip as it passes. I taste his dribble. Salty and briny, but not terrible. I’ve tasted worse. I’m enjoying this blow job.

I suck him in again, release him again, this time a little faster. Its like my mind is locked on this idea of orally pleasuring him. Seriously, it is all that I can think about.

Above me, Flavio grabs my hair and moans. He leans into me as I slurp him in again, and I can tell that he’s loooooving this. Good! I want him to cum like a mother, flood my mouth like a firehose. I want it so badly.

Flavio and I establish a quick rhythm. I’m sucking him as fast as I can, tickling his balls, and playing with his shaft with my tongue. I also roll my head back and forth, just like I’ve seen those bimbos do in the cheap porno movies. Actually, it does help me move him in and out quicker… and it helps me breathe.

I’m salivating like a rabid dog. Flavio’s cock is dripping wet with my spit, and its starting to drizzle on my blouse and breasts. I don’t care. I’m getting really aroused myself. It occurs to me that maybe once I get Flavio off, he might pull up my skirt, reach into my damp panties, and pleasure me with those magic fingers-

“Nnnnnnnngh…!” huffs Flavio, and then his hips shake. I feel his penis tremble, and then my mouth fills with hot semen. Oh, I love it! I **_looooooove_** it! I moan myself, slowing our motion, but sucking even harder.

Its weird; usually when I give a boyfriend a BJ, I let him cum in my mouth, then spit ASAP. I’m definitely not a swallow girl. But…

Before I can think about this any further, a firm thought seizes control of my mind: I must swallow Flavio’s juice. I have to. I want to.

I gulp, and immediately forget what I have just done.

There is a polite knock on the door to the stage.

Flavio is breathing hard, and his knees are wobbling a little. He’s cumming hard now. I smile inside, cupping his balls a little more firmly. I was once on a ten hour flight from Paris to LA; the only thing to read was an old issue of Cosmo. They said that your man will love it if you grip his balls right after they cum, it makes them-

“Miss McMasters?” a timid voice from the stage door calls out. I hear another knock.

“Oh, fuck!” Flavio sputters. He yells out, “Just a minute!”

From the other door, the one to the hallway, I head Ver cry, “Nikki? Jesus, you okay?”

In a flash, Flavio pulls his cock from my hands. He’s still cumming, but doesn’t seem to care. With a frantic motion, he shoves his dick into his undies and then pull up his pants.

“Release!” he says to me between gasps. He snaps his fingers, right before my eyes.

My mind whirls. What the fuck…?

The hallway door bursts open. Ver, Cyn, and Wendy pile into the room. They see me on my knees, my hair disheveled, my blouse open like a sunroof. Flavio is hurriedly zipping up.

** _What the fuck was I just doing???_ **

Shocked, I climb to my feet. My head is jumbled. I’m so confused.

“Jesus, Nikki!” shrieks Ver, racing to my side.

The stage door opens a crack. “Miss McMasters?” a pleasant French voice calls in. “The match has started, you must come-“

“We’ll be right there, Goddamnit!” screams Ver, hurriedly trying to repair my hairdo.

“Omigod, omigod, omigod,” Cyn repeats over and over. She fixes my blouse. Wendy hovers behind me, adjusting my clothing as best she can.

Suddenly I realize: **_The match has started! The whole fucking chess world is staring at my empty seat, wondering where the fuck I am!_**

“Oh shit,” I wail, and tear myself from my anxious friends. Without so much as a look back at them, I throw myself through the stage door.

*** *** ***

There is polite but mild applause as I stride out onto the stage. I smile, holding my head high, pretending that the audience’s glare doesn’t bother me in the slightest. It occurs to me that I have no idea if my makeup is intact. Oh God.

Before me is the chess table. Tatiana Alexeyevna, the World Champ herself, sits on the White side of the board, her first move already made. She watches me approach with a deep frown.

I sit, trying to collect my thoughts.

“Ahem,” Tatiana says.

She’s extending a hand.

Oh, yeah. Tradition demands that at the start and conclusion of every match, the players shake hands. Its supposed to keep things cordial, sportsmanlike. I’ve played hundreds of pro matches… why didn’t I automatically accept her hand?

We quickly shake. I look down at the board.

My mind goes blank.

Jesus… Why… Okay. I’m just a little rattled, that’s all. I’m a pro chess player, we thrive on stress and adrenaline. I just need to…

…um…

I look up at Tatiana, who is watching me with narrowed eyes. Man, she is one ugly woman. She’s like a frog had a baby with a goat and then that baby fell down the stairs and landed on its face. No, that’s only partially it. She’s also got two visible warts, one on-

Someone in the audience coughs.

I jolt back into the present. Oh man, I’ve already lost two minutes on the clock! Okay, **_CONCENTRATE…!_**

I look down at the board. Tatiana has advanced her Queen’s Pawn two squares. That means she’s opening with… with… Um, that’s… Queen’s Gambit. Right? Queen’s Gambit. Yeah. That’s it.

Okay, so I should counter with…

Pawn to D5.

Instantly, Tatiana moves up a matching pawn. Okay, I’ve got that covered: Pawn to E6.

She advances a knight. I capture her pawn at C4. First blood!

We rush our knights and bishops forward, trying to seize control of the center. This is pretty standard stuff. Now I have to…

I hesitate. What the fuck do I do next?

Hrmgh. I’m not sure. I glance down at the little notebook they give you to record the game, and I realize… I haven’t written a damn thing down! Fuck!

Why wouldn’t I do that? I’ve been writing down the games since I was playing at age seven!

_Get it together,_ I tell myself.

Okay, fine, I’ve been in worse scrapes than this. I hesitate for a moment, then move a bishop before my queen.

Instantly, Tatiana advances another pawn, and in a flash, I realize: I’m about to lose my first knight.

No time to beat myself up about it. (But **_why_** did I move that bishop? So stupid!) I counter with my other knight. There is a flurry of activity as we exchange pieces in a little chessman bloodbath.

When the dust settles, I’ve lost both knights, a bishop, and four pawns. Tatiana’s casualties? Two pawns. Plus, her pieces control the middle of the board, and I’m pushed up against the edge.

I grimace, my eyes desperately searching for a weakness. If I were in Tatiana’s shoes, what would I be planning right now?

…uh…

I have no fucking idea.

Shit!

**_SHIT!_** Shitty-shitty-shitty-shitty **_shit shit SHIT!!!_**

I slide a rook over to F8, where he can give my king some cover.

Tatiana moves a knight. “Checkmate,” she says, sounding almost disappointed.

I stare at the board, in a daze. She’s right. I’m mated.

**_Fuck me,_** our game was only… what, twenty moves? That’s pitiful!

I dully look up at my opponent. With a lifeless smile, Tatiana extends the final handshake.

I’m done.

Numbly, I shake with her, then stand up. The audience, all grandmasters, quietly applauds, but you can see that they are disappointed. The match was less than five minutes. Even as I look, I can see people shaking their heads at me and scowling. In the back, the reporters at the press table are already writing up the record of my defeat.

“Match goes to Alexeyevna,” Christine Torzewski announces.

No-one is listening.

*** *** ***

I return to my friends, red-faced and fighting back tears. I’ve lost matches before, of course, but this is more humiliating than anything I’ve ever experienced before.

Ver lets loose with the criticism I was dreading: “Nikki, **_why_** the fuck did you blow Flavio?!?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, unable to look her in the eye.

Cyn and Wendy, thank God, have the wisdom to keep their mouths shut.

*** *** ***

I should have explained earlier: In a championship chess tournament, there are a series of matches, so one random bad game won’t sink a player. As champion, Tatiana Alexeyevna must win six games to retain her title; I have to win seven to claim it. So I’m down, but not out.

So I spend the rest of the day in our hotel room, playing drills with Ver, analyzing more of Alexeyevna’s history with Wendy, and pouring through analysis on the chess computer with Cyn. I do not permit anyone to mention the disaster that happened on stage today. And I don’t think the girls want to mention it, either.

*** *** ***

The next day, I go running just after sunup. Ten miles, instead of my usual five. Then I seclude myself for more drills and prep. No visitors. When matchtime rolls around again, I’m ready.

And I feel great… until I step out onto the stage. Tatiana and the audience look at me, and suddenly my mind freezes. My stomach churns. I’m nervous. My mouth runs dry, my hands shake, and my brain feels claustrophobic in my skull.

Tatiana mates me in fourteen moves.

*** *** ***


	3. The Girls and I Are on a Mission

** _WHY ARE AMERICANS SO BAD AT CHESS?_ **

** _April 28, 1988. Telavi, USSR_ **

** _By Richard Stromberg._ **

** _The World of Chess sighed in frustrated disappointment this week. Nikki McMasters, the celebrated American chess prodigy, was resoundingly defeated by Tatiana Alexeyevna. McMasters lost six games in a row against Alexeyevna, the single worst showing for a championship tournament in over a hundred years._ **

**_“I do not know how McMasters got into chess in first place,” complained Sergei Vaginov, 17th Grandmaster of the USSR. “We hear many good things about her, _da_, and then she comes and plays like complete amateur. A waste of everyone’s time!”_**

** _Perhaps the real problem is that Americans are among the world’s worst chess players? The only American chess champion this century has been Bobby Fischer, who quickly flamed out after winning his title. Nikki McMasters seems certain to become Exhibit A when discussing how American players benefit from hype but disappoint on results. Even worse-_ **

Angrily, I crumple the newspaper and throw it against the far wall. Ver, Wendy, and Cyn were right to hide it from me. But I couldn’t help myself. I had to see how bad the press was.

Its two weeks since my disastrous bout at Telavi. Yeah, I blew the first match when I decided to suck off that cute Italian reporter, and I deserved to lose for such unprofessional behavior. But I did everything right after that. I worked hard, stayed disciplined, stayed focused, even wore my lucky necklace for every match.

Didn’t matter. Alexeyevna smacked me on every game. I couldn’t play thirty moves before she destroyed me.

I am in Mykonos, Greece. This was supposed to be my well-earned, celebratory vacation. After playing the international circuit for two years, and then working my way up the championship ladder for another six months, the girls and I figured that taking a month off after the tournament would be a good idea. Even if I lost, we figured, we’d still want to kick back for our first R&R in almost two and a half years.

But that was before my debacle at Telavi.

We’re all here at the _Axize Anápafsi_ Resort, a luxury hotel and spa, right on the Aegean Sea. The girls are at the restaurant; I opted to stay in our hotel room. I just couldn’t face other human beings. Oh, no-one here knows I’m a chess champion… **_ex_**-chess champion… but my shame knows no boundaries. I really want to die right now.

There’s a soft knock at the door, then Cyn pokes her head in. “Nikki?” she asks timidly.

“Yeah?” I grunt.

“You okay, girl?”

“I’m fine,” I say tonelessly.

Ver and Cyn enter, exchanging a worried glance when they see me.

“I’m not dying, you guys,” I grouse. A pause. “Did you bring me anything from the restaurant?”

Ver was thoughtful enough to grab some pita bread and a bottle of wine. I ignore the bread and uncork the bottle.

“Listen, Nikki,” Cyn says heavily, sitting on the opposite bed from me. “I have bad news.”

I scowl.

“Penguin Random House telegrammed,” says Cyn. “They’re canceling your book project.”

Figures. Right now, my name must be radioactive in the world of chess. I’ll be lucky if I can land a job running a high school chess club now.

“Okay, okay, I’ve been thinking,” Ver interjects, trying to sound chipper. “We take this month off, right? Lay low. Forget about chess. Go snorkeling. Take a pottery class, or something. Then, in three months, we register Nikki in the Western Europe Chess Circuit for a regional title. By then, she’ll be rested. We’ll win some minor titles, let you build up your reputation, let everyone else forget about Telavi. Right?”

“Yeah,” Cyn agrees. A little too quickly.

I shrug, taking a swig of wine directly from the bottle. Why does all Greek wine taste bitter to me?

There’s the sound of running outside in the corridor, and then Wendy burst into the room.

“**_You guys!_**” she exclaims, her eyes wide. “I know why Nikki lost!”

We all freeze, staring at her. The wine bottle is suspended halfway to my lips.

*** *** ***

In our second room, Wendy insisted on setting up her computer equipment, even though I told her not to bother. She’s spent half her time pouring over the printouts, tapping commands into the keyboard, and frowning. Now, for the first time since we arrived in Mykonos, she seems excited.

“I couldn’t figure out why Nikki’s play was so off,” she explained as she shuffled through a stack of papers. “I mean, you read the game transcripts, and you can’t even recognize Nikki’s style. Its like someone kidnapped the real Nikki and sent a complete beginner out to play.”

“Thanks,” I grunt.

Wendy continues: “It occurred to me that your bad streak started at Match One. So I went back to review our prep for that first game, right? And, by accident, I never stopped the analysis recording on that day.”

Some time ago, we discovered it was smart to tape-record our chess discussions, especially when analyzing a specific game. The problem with that is that after you tape-record more than, say, ten discussions, you can’t remember what tape has which conversation.

So Wendy figured out a way to wire the tape recorder to the chess computer. Now, when we punch up a game, we can easily find the recording we made of our discussions. Hey, when you and your team are analyzing over a thousand games, this is an excellent system to recall what was said earlier.

Wendy shifts in her seat, then pushes a button. The tape rolls. The speakers come to life.

We hear Ver’s electrified voice: “_Okay. Let’s run it again. If Alexeyevna opens with Queen’s Gambit, what do you do?_”

Then me: “_Ver, I’ll be okay. _**Please**_ stop being a spaz._”

I wince as I hear how bitchy I sounded. I can be a really horrible friend when I’m under stress.

“At the time, I thought you guys were going to go into analysis mode,” narrates Wendy. “So I hit ‘Record.’” She fast-forwards the tape. “But then Italian Whats-His-Face showed up…”

She releases the button. Now we hear:

Flavio: “_Concentration is everything in chess, no? You have excellent concentration. Excellent. Whatever you put your mind to, you can accomplish._”

Me: “_That feels nice…_”

I sound distracted.

The other girls frown, listening intently.

Flavio: “_And now, Nikki, I will count down from ten to one… When I reach one, your eyes will close, you will be deeply asleep. You cannot resist. Ten… Nine…_”

My back stiffens. **_What the fuck is this?_** I don’t remember this bit at all.

On the recording, Flavio counts, all the while saying things like “_…you feel so sleepy…_” and “_…you will surrender to me completely…_” and “_…you want to follow and obey my suggestions…_”

Finally, he says: “…_One! You are asleep, Nikki. Deeply asleep, and entirely under my control. You want nothing but to obey my instructions, is that not so?_”

Then, on the tape, I reply: “_Yes, master…_” I sound drugged.

“Oh my God!!!” Ver almost shrieks.

Flavio: “_When you step out onto the chess stage, Nikki, you will find that the chess part of your mind is shut down. You can no longer think about chess. You are no longer a chess champion. You will feel nervous and stupid, you will be unable to concentrate at all. This will happen every time you sit at a chessboard. Do you understand?_”

Once again, I reply, “_Yes, master…_”

“Wait, wait!” I cry, unable to believe what I’ve just heard. “What the fuck is this?”

Wendy hits PAUSE. She looks at me levelly. “You don’t get it, Nikki? You were hypnotized.”

*** *** ***

The dark underside of professional chess is that competitors have always used psychological games to undermine one another. I can’t name names, but there was the male World Champion who lost his title because the other team distracted him with sexy prostitutes the night before a key match. Other champs have reported that threatening, anonymous phone calls would keep them up late at night before they played. One player was given a cup of tea laced with a powerful laxative before playing. Dirty mind games and chess have a long, long, loooooooong history.

But **_hypnotism?_** I’ve never heard of that a player being hypnotized. It just seems too far-fetched.

“Waitaminute, waitaminute,” I sputter, waving Wendy’s hand away before she can hit PLAY again. “This.. this makes no **_sense._**”

“Why not?” Cyn asks.

“I… I can’t be hypnotized!” I exclaim. “For crying out loud, I’m a chess genius! My IQ is over 145!” I don’t want to say this in front of the other ladies, but I’m too smart to fall under hypnotism.

“She’s right,” agrees Ver.

“Do you remember Flavio saying these words to you?” Wendy asks me pointedly. She folds her arms over her chest.

I hesitate. “Well… no…”

“Well, the computer didn’t make up this conversation,” grumbles Wendy. She pushes a few buttons, and then the recording resumes:

Flavio: “_And now, I will count from one to five. Upon five, you will awaken, remembering nothing. You will be convinced you and I had a nice, pleasant chat. Do you understand?_”

Me: “_Yes master…_”

Flavio: “_Oh, one more thing. Upon awakening, you will have an irresistible urge to suck my cock. You will drop to your knees, open my pants, and make me cum in your mouth. You will be convinced that this is your idea. Do you understand?_”

Me: “_Yes master…_”

Flavio: “_And now I will wake you. You will follow and obey all my commands. Ready? One…_”

Wendy clicks off the recording.

“I don’t know jack shit about hypnosis,” says Cyn, very slowly. “But it sure sounds like you were hypnotized to me.”

I sit down heavily on a chair, thunderstruck. Even now, as I rack my memory, I don’t recall any of this. I can still remember **_wanting_** to blow Flavio, however.

There is a heavy silence as the girls and I stare into space.

“**_What the fuck do we do?_**” Ver asks in despair.

*** *** ***

The girls rally around me immediately.

“We go to the FIDE tournament judges,” declares Cyn, smacking a fist into her palm. “We play them the recording and we show them how badly you played versus all the times prior when you were awesome.”

But I shoot this idea down. Every year, FIDE is swamped with accusations of cheating. They draw a hard line against players complaining after a match is over. And if I were to tell them after-the-fact that a **_world championship tournament_** was tainted? Forget it. They’d never listen.

“Then we go to Interpol, to the police,” Cyn argues. “The recording proves-

“Tape recordings are not legally admissible,” Wendy says dourly. “They’re too easy to fake.”

“So there’s **_nothing_** we can do?” exclaims Ver, looking slightly crazed.

“What are you always telling me, Ver?” I say. “Be open to new possibilities?”

Then I sigh, close my eyes, and put my head in my hands. The girls fall silent; they know this is how I do my hardest thinking.

I concentrate for about a minute, letting my high-speed brain sift through all the data.

“Okay,” I finally say. “Let’s start with the stuff that **_doesn’t_** add up. Like… How long was I alone with Flavio?”

“I dunno,” Ver shrugs. “Twenty minutes? Tops.”

“Assuming Flavio did hypnotize me,” I pontificate, “could he have zapped my brain in that little time? Remember, he and I didn’t spend the **_entire_** time just talking… if you get my drift…“

“Right, right, got it,” Cyn hurriedly cuts me off. “I once saw a hypnosis show in college, and to put his volunteers under, the hypno guy needed… ten minutes?”

“Right,” I say. “Can we replay the part where Flavio and I are alone, Wendy?”

We listen to the whole conversation between me and the Italian reporter. I’m no expert, but it sounds like the hypnotism part happened **_extremely_** quickly. Like, literally one minute I’m flirting with him, and then sixty seconds later, I sound tranquilized and I’m calling him ‘_Master_.’

“That seems fast,” Ver observes dryly. Maybe its my imagination, but she seems reluctant to believe that Flavio is some kind of villain.

“Another question,” I drawl. “**_Why _**the fuck would Flavio do this? It makes no sense. Why would an Italian reporter want to destroy me at the championship?”

The girls have no answer for that.

I fold my arms and slouch in my seat. What are my options?

“Ver,” I say slowly, “you heard from Bernie?”

Bernard Coulter is my agent. He handles all my bookings, personal appearances, and tournament schedule. He’s the guy who finds me paying gigs.

Ver looks uncomfortable. “Yeah,” she mutters, looking down at the worn carpet. “He telegrammed yesterday. No bookings.”

Shit.

Usually after a world championship match, both the winner and loser spend about six months doing a sort of glory lap. They are invited to speak at chess clubs or universities. Even more lucrative contracts include agreeing to tutor the spoiled brats of the superrich for a few lousy chess lessons. World championship players make good money.

But I have **_nothing_** on my calendar? Bernie couldn’t book **_anything?_** That means no-one in the chess world wants to ever see me again. I’m a pariah. I’m fucked.

I have no choice, then.

“We go after Flavio, then,” I tell the girls. “I don’t know how, but we’ve got to catch his ass and figure out how to prove that he screwed me.”

Cyn and Wendy beam at me. I can tell they were hoping for this.

But Ver? The ends of her mouth turn down. Her beautiful face is fraught. My oldest friend won’t look at me right now.

“I have a question,” Wendy ventures. “Do you know how to find Flavio?”

My heart sinks. It occurs to me now that I don’t even have the dude’s business card. I realize too late: **_of course_** he never gave it to me. He could be anywhere in Europe by now.

*** *** ***

We cancel the rest of our stay at the Mykonos resort and hop a ferry to Athens. I don’t like the Grecian capital, despite its connection to history and classical art. The city is dusty and crowded and there’s too much pushing.

No matter; the girls and I are on a mission. We’re not here to enjoy ourselves. We check into the Titania Hotel, which is just few blocks from the National Library of Greece. And now, Cyn, our research expert, really goes to work.

Thank God Cyn’s family vacationed in Greece when she was a teenager; she’s half-fluent in the language. Ver, Wendy, and I aren’t much help to her, so we leave her in the library stacks, her nose stuck in a book.

“C’mon, ladies,” I say. “We’ve got our own task.”

*** *** ***

Ver, Wendy, and I visit the Athens bureau of The London Times. The Times is the same paper which published the first interview Flavio did with me, what, two months back?

“Hi there,” I say brightly to the bored-looking Times receptionist. “I was wondering if I could inquire about one of your reporters?”

*** *** ***

In little more than five minutes, the girls and I are sitting in the office of the bureau chief, one Winchell Jerrold. (His name is _Winchell!_ Really!) Mr. Jerrold, an older fellow, looks at me quizzically over his half-moon specs.

“My assistant tells me that you want to contact one of our reporters…?” he asks me, suspicious.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m Nikki McMasters, and your Flavio DiMarco did a piece on me, oh, about a month ago? Maybe two?”

I’m careful to play the dumb bimbo. If these newspaper people think I’m a ditz, they’re likely to underestimate me. That’s an old chess tactic.

“Nikki McMasters?” Old Winchell says, furrowing his brow. “Why do I know your name, miss…?”

“Oh, no reason,” Ver says, somewhat too quickly.

“See,” I step in, “I was, like, rereading that article – it was just a little item, believe me – but I noticed that Mr. DiMarco got some of the details wrong.”

Winchell’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Oh?” he says, not very pleasantly.

What little I know about newspaper editors is that they hate printing inaccurate information. It opens them up to libel lawsuits.

“So, like, I was hoping to contact Mr. DiMarco. You know, to ask him to make some… whaddya call them, corrections?” I say, laying on the bimbo act with relish.

The newspaper man sighs, rising from his chair. “Wait here,” he instructs.

He’s gone for about five minutes. When he returns, he hands me a 3x5 index card.

“Here,” he says. “Mr. DiMarco is actually a writer for Reuters International, **_not_** London Times. So if you have any complaints, you’ll have to contact them.” He smiles. “Their number is on that card; you can call them for his current assignment.”

I flash Winchell my brightest smile.

*** *** ***


	4. Covering the Austrian Cup Final

Our efforts are beginning to bear fruit.

From the hotel, I call the number for Reuters. Man, the long-distance charges on this trip are going to be astronomical. Can’t be helped. The line eventually connects, and eventually I talk my way to a snooty lady who works in Reuters Sports. She clearly doesn’t want to talk to me.

“_Mr. Flavio DiMarco isn’t a Reuters staff writer,_” she informs me, her distain blatant. “_He’s a freelance guy. That means we buy his stories, but he isn’t officially on staff._”

“I see,” I say. “Well… is there any way you can tell me where he is now? Its really, really important that I-“

“_Reuters policy is not to give out assignment information,_” the lady huffs.

I think fast. When I was an early chess student, I learned that if I feigned desperation, my opponents would sometimes take pity on me and lower their guard.

“Oh, please, ma’am,” I plead, trying to sound like I’m fighting tears. “Flavio is my cousin and our grandma is really, really sick, and he doesn’t know that she was rushed to the hospital, and… Aw, jeepers, can’t you please help me this once?”

(‘Jeepers’ makes me sound younger than I am. Feint and deception! Another chess tactic!)

“_Oh, for christsake,_” the snooty lady grumbles. “_Fine. Mr. DiMarco is covering the Austrian Cup Final. When you see him, tell him he needs to submit _**before**_ deadline, okay?_” Then then she’s gone.

I get off the phone, grinning.

*** *** ***

But I’m not smiling for long. Another call to General Information confirms that the Austrian Cup wraps up **_tomorrow night_**. That means that the girls and I have less than thirty hours to get to Vienna. After the final game plays, who knows where Flavio will be.

“Start packing,” I order Ver and Wendy. “I’ll call the train station.”

*** *** ***

Cyn returns from the library with useful information. “Are you ready for this?” she asks, briefly halting our departure preparations. “I think I know how Flavio hypnotized you.”

“Lay it on me,” I say, bracing myself for unpleasant truths.

“Post-hypnotic suggestion,” explains Cyn. “If I’m right, Flavio mesmerized you long before Match One. He told you that whenever he said a trigger phrase or made a gesture or something, you would return to a deep hypnotic trance, probably not even realizing what was happening to you.”

“Oooookay,” I reply, processing. “But I’ve only been with the dude… what, three times? And during the first two encounters, you one of guys were with me the whole time. Did he dangle a pocketwatch before me, or something?”

“No,” Ver says.

“I think you must have spent time with him even before that,” Cyn offers. “My theory is: You guys met **_before_** the interviews, you got hypnotized, he programmed you, and then he erased your memory.”

This alarms me. “Jesus,” I mutter.

“If Flavio can trigger you,” Wendy thinks aloud, “then we can’t leave you alone with him. Like, not ever.”

“Yeah,” Ver seconds.

I let out a long breath. “Okay, we know where the bastard is, for the moment. So when I confront him, I’ll have to make sure you one of guys are with me, right?”

Everyone nods.

“Okay, boss,” Wendy says to me. “What’s our next move?”

There’s only one option. I say, “Let’s go to Austria.”

“Hold on,” interrupts Cyn. “Can I get that phone number from Reuters International first?”

*** *** ***

I first rode the European train system when I was a teenager, traveling to countless regional chess tournaments. At first, all those strange languages and different colored signs scared me; I was certain I’d miss a connection, wander off into some foreign country, and never be seen from again.

But trains in Europe are pretty easy to figure out, assuming you keep a cool head. Since we are in a rush, I handle purchasing the Athens-Vienna tickets and finding our platform. Soon, Ver, Cyn, Wendy, and me are bundled up into a small compartment, sharing one of those super-sweet European sodas where the label has no English whatsoever.

“This whole endeavor is pretty crazy,” Ver says, shaking her head. “We don’t even have tickets to the Austrian Cup!”

She’s right, damnit. I haven’t thought that far ahead.

Okay, then. I close my eyes, put my head in my hands, and do my hardest thinking.

*** *** ***

We arrive in Vienna, lug our many suitcases from the train, then locate a taxi driver who speaks decent English. We check into a seedy hotel. Then, as a part of my plan, the four of us dress up like we’re going clubbing: Big hair, glittery makeup, dangly earrings, nice clothes. We look trashy; perfect!

“Damn!” Cyn exclaims, and points to a clock.

It is past eight PM; the final game of the Austrian Cup is already underway. Shit!

So the four of us pour out into the Viennese streets, hailing a cab as if we are in need of rescue.

*** *** ***

Our taxi driver takes us to the _Praterstadion_, the soccer stadium where the game is being slugged out right now. Flavio is somewhere inside, watching the game.

Everywhere the girls and I look, people are glued to their radios. Everyone reacts as one when their team makes a goal. The city feels terribly distracted.

Suddenly, everyone around us wails in anguish; the visiting team has scored. The game is not going well for the home players.

“Com’on,” I say to the girls. We don’t have tickets to get into the stadium… but I think I know how to counter that disadvantage.

*** *** ***

Another hour later, my friends and I are pushing our way through the thick crowds outside the stadium. The game is letting out; tipsy people are flooding into the streets, singing and laughing.

We don’t have much time.

“How are we going to spot Flavio is all of this?” Cyn yells, craning her neck in all directions.

I point to a set of double doors on the stadium, directly before us. They’re marked “**_Presse-Eingang._**”

“That’s the entrance for the Press Box,” I explain, shouting to be heard over the crowd. “I’m betting that Flavio sat in the Press Box; those are some of the best seats in the house, right?”

“Oh,” Wendy says, impressed. “That’s smart.”

Actually, it’s the only plan I could come up with. If my hunch isn’t right or we’ve already missed the Italian slimeball, this is the end of the road.

*** *** ***

The girls and I stake out the Press Doors, fighting the steady river of people filing out of the station. We watch those doors like four hawks. Occasionally a reporter or two emerges from the press entrance. But no Flavio.

In the meantime, its not pleasant to be pushing against so many soccer fans, many of them buzzed from the stadium beer. Leering guys keep making kissy faces at me, hitting on me in German, or actually pinching my butt. One really wasted fellow even tries to kiss me.

“Jesus!” Ver exclaims when another randy fan tries to put his arm around her. “Nikki, you sure this is gonna be worth it?”

I grit my teeth, promising myself that I will make this up to my friends, somehow, someday. They’re real troopers to put up with this.

Suddenly the Press Doors bang open, and a small host of male reporters pile out into the streets. These guys are laughing and talking amongst themselves. The look tired, but happy that their working day is over.

My heart pounds. **_There’s_** Flavio!

**_There the bastard is!_** He’s shorter than I remember… but still oh, so cute. He’s chatting with two other reporters, gesturing with his hands as he makes a point. I remember those hands… Once, they swarmed over my body, and…

I mentally slap myself. _Focus!_ I think angrily. _You’ve got a job to do._

Ver has seen him, too. “C’mon!” she shouts to Cyn, Wendy, and me.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, alarmed.

Ver gives me a patronizing look. “You never listen, Nikki,” she scolds me. “Be open to **_new possibilities!_**”

Then she plunges into the crowd, making a beeline for the reporters.

In amazement, I watch as Ver slides up to one of Flavio’s two companions, quickly slipping her arm around his. “**_There_** you are, big boy!” she gushes, beaming up at the surprised fellow.

In a flash, I realize what Ver is doing: She’s pretending to be a little drunk. Her new reporter friend looks stunned, but when she flirts, he grins broadly. I see Ver speak with him, and the guy nods. She is now a part of the reporters’ little party; she walks with them down the street, as if she’s known them forever. She’s now embedded herself into Flavio’s little party.

“Oh, Ver’s a **_genius_**,” I say to Cyn and Wendy. “Follow them!”

*** *** ***

The reporters and Ver wind down several bustling streets, before they stagger into a sports pub. Ver is still making googly-eyes at the fellow she snagged. She’s playing the part of Drunk Girlfriend really, really well.

“Nice,” I grin, realizing that my plan is coming together better than I’d hoped. “Wendy, Cyn, you guys wait here for a sec?”

My friends nod, and I hurry into the bar.

*** *** ***

The pub is packed with celebrating soccer fans, angrily drinking themselves into a stupor. Apparently, tonight’s game was very painful for these die-hard fans to watch.

I push my way past the throngs, looking in all directions for Flavio and party.

**_There_** they are! In a table, in the back! Ver is squeezed in with them.

I take a second to get myself ready. If my plan is to work, I have to confront Flavio, but in such a way that doesn’t let him get me alone. Or at least, I have to stay where Ver can keep a close eye on me, so I can’t get rehypnotized. It will be tricky, but what choice do I have?

I quickly fluff my hair. I pumped about a gallon of hairspray into it, so my hairdo is practically a small tower on top of my head. I quickly unbutton the top three buttons of my blouse, exposing my chest.

Then, summoning courage, I slip into the seat next to Flavio. He looks at me in surprise.

I smile sweetly, and lean towards him.

“Hey,” I purr. “I saw you across the bar, stud; buy me a drink?”

Now here’s a crucial part of my plan: Flavio has no idea that Nikki McMasters, disgraced chess champion, is in Vienna. The few times he’s seen me, I’m always worn plain clothes with minimal makeup. He’s certainly never seen me done up as a giddy slut. So in this dim light and with a few beers in him, I’m betting that he doesn’t recognize me.

My Italian target scans me, his greedy eyes coming to rest in my cleavage. Good. He stifles a burp, then leans forward.

Despite myself, and despite my fury about what this man has done to me… I’m still attracted to him. _Jesus, keep it together, Nikki,_ I warn myself.

“Hey there,” Flavio says.

“Hi,” I flirt, acting interested.

The Italian smirks then leans towards me to put his arms around my shoulders. From across the table, I see Ver watching us closely. Her date is trying to kiss her neck, but she’s not about to let me out of her sight. Good ol’ Ver.

“Ach,” Flavio grunts, and leans away for a second. He fishes in his pocket, drawing out his hotel key, which had poked him when he went to put the moves on me. With a disgusted grunt, the reporter tosses his key onto the table, then resumes trying to embrace me.

“Whew! Slow down, loverboy,” I tease. “Can’t a lady-”

“You’re American,” he interrupts, slightly surprised.

I freeze. Does he recognize me?

“Americans don’t like football,” Flavio mumbles. “Not **_real_** football, anyway.”

He’s already a little drunk; good. I play my next move.

“Hey, baby, you’re forgetting our deal,” I mock-scold. “You’re supposed to buy me a drink, remember?”

“Sure,” says Flavio, climbing to his feet.

“I’m just gonna go pee,” I tell him. “Just don’t drink without me, okay?”

Flavio grins, and I admire those perfect teeth once again. Then he saunters off to the bar.

Wasting no time, I scramble to my own feet, exchanging a knowing look with Ver. Then I hurry outside.

*** *** ***

Cyn and Wendy are still out there on the curb, waiting for me. “What’s going on?” Wendy asks me worriedly.

“So far, so good,” I say, grasping her hand. “I think we’re okay here.”

“You sure?” Cyn asks me, her expression worried.

“I’ll be fine,” I promise. “I gotta get back in there. You know the plan. See you guys later?”

Cyn and Wendy give one another a fraught look, but don’t argue with me.

*** *** ***

When I get back to the table, Flavio is waiting, a pint for each of us now on the table. Geez, the Austrians pour tall beers, don’t they? How am I supposed to drink all of this?

“Hey there,” Flavio beams, patting the seat next to him. I sit, allowing him to wrap one arm around my waist. He leans in. “You know, you look-“

At that moment, the reporter Ver hooked up with slams his hand onto the table, making us all jump. “It makes no fucking sense!” he bellows, in German.

I realize he’s talking about the game with another reporter.

“Hey, face it: Hans Huber played a lousy defense!” the other guy sneers. “That’s why your guys deserved to lose.”

The two reporters double down on their argument. For the moment, Ver is forgotten. Good; I need her devoting all her attention to me right now. This is the most dangerous part of my plan.

Okay: now that I’ve chased Flavio down and he doesn’t recognize me, all I have to do is the following: (A) get him drunker, (B) lure him back to our hotel room, and (C) get him to brag about how he duped an American chess champion while one of Cyn’s spy-cameras films the whole thing.

Yeah, I know, the whole plan is hair-brained. A lot can go wrong. This last part of the strategy is a work-in-progress.

I hate doing **_anything_** seat-of-the-pants. I’m a chess grandmaster; we like to plan out our actions twenty moves in advance. The scariest chess games are the ones where you don’t know your endgame. Everything I’m about to do will have to be completely improvised, completely instinctive on my part. Inside, I’m sweating bullets.

“Any**_way_**,” my Italian friend says, turning back to me, “I was gonna say that you look sooo hot.”

So I laugh as if I’m hopelessly charmed by Flavio, and I place my hand on his leg. He smiled broadly.

The trouble is… I am still charmed by him. Damnit! Do I find him hot for real, or is that his hypnosis, working on my brain? I wish I knew.

“So,” Flavio leers, sipping his beer, “you like football? Excuse me: You Americans call it **_soccer._**”

I pretend to be an airheaded tourist. “Actually, I don’t know much about it,” I giggle. “I’m in town, and decided to check out what this Austrian Cup thingee is all about.” Running my hand up his thigh, I add, “But I’m much more interested in another kind of action… if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I do,” grins Flavio.

“I’m Stacey,” I purr, and snuggle closer.

I get Flavio talking, talking about soccer, about sports, about how much he travels. I notice that he never tells me anything about his personal life, nor does he mention where he’ll be after today. Clever bastard.

At the same time, he keeps nursing his beer. And while I put my glass to my lips every now and then, he never notices that I am not really drinking mine.

*** *** ***

After twenty minutes, I judge that he’s ripe for my final play of the night.

“Hey,” I mumble in my _I-want-you_ voice. “You want to come back to my hotel with me and my girlfriend?” I nod toward Ver.

Across the table, Ver has fended off her reporter friend. He’s now engrossed in his argument, and seems to have forgotten her entirely. Good.

Flavio licks his lips. “I’ve got a better idea,” he proposes. “My hotel is on this block. We should go there.”

I’m a little taken aback. “Wow,” I say, playing for time. “Yes, but…”

“I have another good idea,” Flavio proposes, once again gazing into my cleavage. “I know the owner of this bar. There is a private room in the back. Why don’t you, me, and your girlfriend duck in there for a little? He can… get to know each other. **_Then_**, if you like me, we can go to my room. Eh?”

Translation: _Let’s neck and fool around in the back, then once I seduce you, we’ll go back to my hotel for straight-up sex._

Instantly, my mind considers twenty different countermoves. The best strategy here is to go with Slimeball to the back room, and make sure I bring Ver with me. I’ll neck with Flavio a little, but then insist that if he wants to get laid, he has to come to **_my_** room. Maybe I’ll even imply that he can me and Ver in a threesome; I know Ver will play along with that.

“Let’s go,” I purr.

I look at Ver, and she understands. She, Flavio, and I all rise from the table.

*** *** ***

Flavio wasn’t kidding; he really does know the owner of this pub. The three of us file down the back corridor, through a door that guarded by a scary-looking bouncer, then up a thin flight of stairs. At the top, there’s a tiny office with a desk and chair inside. No couch.

The Italian ushers me and Ver inside, then carefully shuts the door. He rounds on me, grinning confidently.

“And now, ladies,” Flavio says grandly, “let’s get to it, shall we?”

Ver smiles at him, her eyes glowing. “I have brought her for you, Master,” she beams.

My heart skips. **_What_** did Ver just say?

“Excellent, my slave,” Flavio smirks. “You’ve done so well. **_SLEEP…!_**” he says, passing a hand over Ver’s face.

Instantly, Ver loses all expression. Her eyes close, and her head droops. She appears lifeless.

“Deeper and deeper, Veronica,” murmurs the Italian, concentrating on my friend. “You are going so much deeper into trance than ever before…”

**_Oh shit!_** Horror grips me. I fail to suppress a gasp.

Flavio fixes a cocky eye on me. “How do you think I got to you, Nikki?” he leers. “You don’t remember it, but I after I tricked Veronica into hypnosis, it was easy to manipulate her so that I could then entrance **_you_**. You two have **_both_** been in my power for quite a while now.”

I go to reach for Ver, to shake her, to scream at her, to wake her from her trance.

Flavio snaps his fingers before my eyes, once. His motion is quicker than a cobra’s strike. But in a flash, I discover that I can’t move my body. Or speak. I’m completely frozen.

“Oh, Nikki,” sighs Flavio, relishing the moment, “I **_never_** forget a pretty face that I’ve hypnotized. Or a red hot figure like yours.” He slides a hand over my body, eventually gripping one of my buttocks. “You were… particularly memorable when we fucked. But you don’t remember that, do you?”

I struggle within my mind desperately. Its no use; my muscles are locked in place, my voice inert. Its like I’m under some horrible spell. I want to scream in despair.

“Don’t worry,” Flavio tells me, stepping closer, “you won’t care about anything in a moment….”

His hand floats before my face. “**_SLEEP…!_**” he commands me.

My eyes close, and I remember nothing more.

*** *** ***


	5. Punished for Seeking Revenge

I’ve been captured.

When I was a kid, just learning the rules of chess, I imagined what it must feel like to be a chess piece when you are captured by the other side. In the game, the captured piece is moved off the board, to watch the rest of the match from chess purgatory, I guess. I imagined the removed pieces to feel betrayed and scared.

Well, now I find myself floating in a trance, not a worry in the world, and I feel wonderful. Flavio’s voice drifts through my mind, telling me what I will do, how I will think, and what I now believe. I’m aware that I’m his to command, and I love it. If being captured feels like this, I’m all for it.

I hear Flavio counting upwards. He snaps his fingers, and I open my eyes.

*** *** ***

I blink, then look around. I’m still in the pub office, standing next to Ver. She’s awakening, too. We look one another over.

“Well, now,” Flavio gloats, standing before us. “How do you feel?”

My thoughts blank out. “Wonderful,” I hear myself say.

“Yes!” Ver agrees. “**_So_** wonderful.”

Flavio smiles broadly, and I realize: He is my master. I must obey him. It will feel **_wonderful_** to obey him.

“Very good,” the Italian smiles in triumph. “**_Now_** we go to my hotel room.”

*** *** ***

The three of us enter the expansive lobby of my master’s hotel, a fair upscale place for international travelers. The floors are polished marble, the chandelier twinkles from the domed ceiling, and a recording of a string quartet is piped through the speakers. I can see the hotel’s restaurant, off to the left, and currently closed for the night.

My master strides across the lobby, with Ver and me obediently in tow.

I feel so happy.

As we approach the elevator bank, a uniformed concierge officer steps forward. “_Verzeilhung, mein herr,_” he says politely. “_Hast du einen-_“

“In English!” barks my master.

The concierge smiles weakly. “Excuse, please. Er, may you show room key, please?”

“Oh,” grunts my master. He fishes through his pockets, and his face turns slack.

“Oh shit!” he grouses. The key is missing. He forgot about it when he set it down, back at the pub.

“Look,” my master growls, “I’m a guest here, you’ve seen me in the morning! Let me up.”

“Sorry sir,” the concierge replies. “I see many guests, yah? You must show key.”

The two argue. While my master gets angry and threatens, the concierge will not budge.

“Get the hotel manager,” demands Flavio, his face red.

The concierge hesitates. “We will try, sir. It is late, the manager, he has gone home, also-”

“**_FIND SOMEONE WHO CAN GET ME A KEY!!!_**” my master explodes.

*** *** ***

It is over an hour before the berated hotel staff can confirm my master’s identity and give him a second key. In all the time, Ver and I stand off to the side, silly smiles on our faces, our minds wonderfully blank. We are so happy.

Finally, Ver, me, and my master are riding the elevator up to the 17th floor. My master has a corner room, with a panoramic view of the _Praterstadion_ stadium, plus Vienna’s Leopoldstadt district and the Danube River beyond. This is a deluxe room. In my tranquilized mind, it dimly occurs to me that it is very odd that my master can afford such an expensive suite…

…but I disregard this thought. My master is wonderful. I only want to serve him.

My master steps into the sunken bedroom, pushing two large suitcases against the wall. “Nikki, Veronica,” he says sternly, “you now both want to strip down to your bra and underwear!” He snaps his fingers.

A thought pops into my head: I want to strip down to my underwear! Yes, this is what I want to do. What a totally natural thing to do right now, but to take off my outer clothes.

Without a thought, my hands unbutton and shed my blouse. I toss it aside, then kick off my high heels. My skirt is quickly cast aside, too. As I’m undressing, Ver is doing the same. We briefly make eye contact, and smile at one another. How wonderful is this?

Meanwhile, my master is rummaging through an oversized suitcase. He pulls out a travel container, the type you use to transport pills.

“You see this?” Flavio says. He seems to be gloating, although I’m not sure why. Approaching us, my master takes care to spill exactly two pills into his right palm.

“This is the most potent Spanish Fly I’ve ever encountered, bought it from a black market chemist in Liverpool,” he tells us, holding the pills before us. “The stuff works wonders on your hormones, it will make you hornier than a rabbit in heat. But when I snap my fingers, you two will completely believe that these pills are nothing but common aspirin.”

He snaps his fingers.

I blink.

“Nikki,” my master frowns. “Do you feel alright? You look like you have a terrible headache.”

“Master?” I ask, puzzled.

“You do,” he observes, passing a hand before my eyes. “You have a terrible, terrible headache.”

I’m about to respond when my head throbs. Ohhhh! I wince, putting a hand to my forehead. Oh, I don’t feel well at all! I have a terrible, terrible headache…

“You too, Veronica,” smirks my master, snapping his fingers before Ver’s face.

“Ahhh…” Ver immediately says in pain.

“You two look miserable,” my master says, not a trace of pity in his voice.

“I’m sorry, master,” I moan. Its hard to concentrate; my head is really killing me.

“Well, here,” he says, raising his palm. “Take one of these, your headache will go away instantly.”

Gratefully, Ver and I each gulp down a pill. Amazingly, the instant I swallow, my headache fades. Like magic!

“Wow,” I remark. I can see by Ver’s expression, she’s pleased too.

“Very good,” crows my master. “Now… both of you sit on the bed. Next to each other. The stuff takes a minute to kick in.”

As Ver and I move to obey, his hands reach out and cup my ass cheek as I pass him. “Ah, Nikki,” he says smugly. “You seriously thought you could track me down and… then what? Win back your stupid chess career? Like I would help you, or something?”

My master laughs, cruelly.

“I hypnotize a lot of people,” he tells us, his lean smile widening. “Some – very few – remember what I’ve done to them. And yes, some of those few come after me, looking for revenge. But none succeed. I program you slaves with post-hypnotics to let me know that you are coming. Why, I knew you were leaving Greece even before you stepped on a train! And Veronica called my answering service and told me all about your little scheme. She doesn’t remember it, of course.”

“Ah, ladies,” my master continues, slowly walking to me. “You should have realized before you decided to track me down: I’m in your minds. I **_control_** you, even after I walk away.”

As Flavio speaks, he lifts up my bra, setting my breasts free. With an indulgent expression, he starts fondling me.

“But here’s the thing,” my master says thoughtfully. “You silly bitches thought you’d extract revenge? That I can’t allow. Oh no. You must be punished.” He continues massaging my chest. “I’m tempted to brainwash you permanently, to make you follow me around Europe as my love slaves, forever. But that would be impractical…”

A sudden hot flash sweeps over my body. I feel a light sweat on my brow and down my back. And something else is happening, down between my legs…

“No, I think your punishment will be something else entirely,” my master gloats, now thumbing my nipples. “You two are best friends, eh? Well, in about sixty seconds, you two will be so uncontrollably horny that you will not be able to resist one another’s bodies. You two will fuck each other right here, right now. **_And you will remember fucking each other for the rest of your lives._**”

I’m trying to concentrate on what my master is saying… but suddenly I’m aware that my vagina is tingling. Oh my God… I’m aroused! Yes, I’m… I’m… **_so fucking horny!_**

There’s no doubt about it. I can feel how wet I am, even just sitting here. Images of gorgeous, naked people start flashing in my mind, and suddenly all I am thinking about is sex. Oh, God. How is this possible?

Flavio chuckles. “In college, I wrote a paper about female relationships. You know what destroys the foundation of a platonic female friendship? Sex. Yes, you two are about to have wild, animalistic sex with each other. And in the morning, you’ll remember it all. The emotional bond between you two will be badly cracked. In a week, you will never be able to be friends again. **_Ever._**” He chuckles, an evil sound.

But I’m now panting so hard, my master’s words are barely registering. My pussy feels moist, and I may be dribbling vagina juice down between my legs and onto the mattress. I can hear Ver gasping beside me; she’s just as turned on as I am.

“So you two fuck will each other, and destroy your friendship…” orders my master, “…**_now._**”

He snaps his fingers.

Instantly, Ver is on me, kissing me, pulling at my bra, and reaching between my legs. I can smell her sweat and her own vagina. She’s aggressive, but I can tell her body is trembling from head to toe.

I can’t resist. I kiss back, reeling back onto the mattress from her assault. Soon I’m lying face-up, with Ver on top of me.

The haze of sheer arousal claims me. I can’t think, can’t remember, can’t do anything by obey my wildest desires. The woman on top of me kissing me loses any identity; I can’t remember her name, or who she is, or why we are almost naked in this bed together. All I know is that I **_want_** her, I want her to finger me, to penetrate me, to spank me, to pin me down and make me taste such sweet orgasms that I may explode with happiness. **_I want her so fucking much._**

The woman yanks at my bra, somehow unsnapping it in the process. I didn’t see how she did it, but I don’t care. I push down my own panties, and yes, they are sopping. I’m delighted. Now naked, I grab the woman’s underwear.

It’s a scramble, but soon she’s naked, and she’s kneeling on top of me, attacking my face with wet, horny kisses. Her hands seize one of my boobs, and I feel her knee thrust its way between my legs. Soon that knee is pressing directly against my crotch. I squeal in ecstasy.

The woman and I are muttering nonsense to one another: “Oh, God!” / “Oh, fuck me…!” / “You’re so hot!” / “Oh God, do me!” / “Just like that, just like that!” / and so on. I can’t control my mouth. I can’t control any part of my body or mind. All I know is a fog of undeniable pleasure. I want **_more!_**

Grunting like an animal, the woman slithers her tongue down to my breasts. This means she has to reposition her whole body; now she’s on all fours, still dominating me. I feel her hand appear where her knee was, and I shriek in happiness as her fingers push into my vagina. I’m so wet, they just slip in without any resistance. **_Immediately_**, she’s tweaking my clit.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh fuck!” I yell, arching my back. My hands shoot off to the sides, and I grip the bedsheets as if I’m about to tear them apart.

I’m trembling like a leaf now. One leg is kicking in uncontrolled spasms. I’m also grunting, “**_Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh…!_**” over and over again, without the power to stop. My lover’s fingers and mouth attack my erogenous zones, and I am swept away in the river of lust.

Suddenly Flavio is standing over me, pressing two fingers into my forehead. I look up into his eyes, and am immediately hypnotized all over again.

“You will cum… **_now_**,” he orders me, and snaps his fingers.

And my vagina detonates in a fifty billion megaton explosion of sheer, raw delight. I arch my back all the way, pushing my head back into the pillow. I open my mouth to shriek with pleasure, but my voice is somehow cut off.

The woman sucking on my vagina laps even harder, and suddenly I am wrapping my legs around her in a bear hug. My muscles are tensing like crazy. My orgasm is, amazingly, doubling in strength.

“My turn,” I hear Flavio say.

The woman’s lips vanish, and then I hear her reply, “Yes, master.”

I’m so dazed in my sex coma that I’m not sure what is happening next. Bodies shift, and suddenly the woman’s face is before my own. She leans over me and starts French kissing me. Deep, wet, French kisses, with her tongue deep inside my own mouth. She is salty, and I realize I’m tasting my own cum. Normally, this would gross me out, but now… Now in my hyper-horny state, I love it. My cum is a love potion. I want this girl to French me forever.

But at the same time, strong hands are forcing my legs apart. New fingers begin playing with my vagina, just a bit. I gag a little, as its hard to concentrate on kissing when your already-blasted VJ is getting tickled again.

And then, a cock, a firm, rigid, steel-like cock begins sliding into me. My master! He’s mounted my hips and is now thrusting inside me, quickly ramping up to full speed.

Now my whole body is vibrating like an earthquake’s epicenter is opening up beneath me. I can’t think, I can’t kiss, I can’t do anything but lie on the bed and let the fingers and tongues and cocks have their way with me. I feel helpless, yet I love it. I’ve never known such rapt pleasure.

*** *** ***

After I am fucked, my master puts me back to sleep. I am dimly aware that he is playing with the other woman – whomever she is – but I don’t care.

Some time passes, and then I am woken again. Now, for reasons I don’t understand, I totally believe that I am a slave-girl in the court of a Roman emperor. My master – the emperor – orders green grapes from hotel room service, and I am forced to receive them from the bellboy. The bellboy gapes at my complete nudity when I answer the door, but I do not care. I must obey the commands my master has put into my mind.

Later, as my master lounges on the bed and the other woman slowly sucks his cock, I feed my master the grapes, one-by-one. He seems to enjoy this immensely.

And then later, he wants sex again. The other woman and I are only to happy to service him.

*** *** ***

Such is our night together.

Right around three AM, my master loses energy. He and I are laying side-by-side on the bed, and he is stroking my naked body, as if I am a cat. I lie there quietly, allowing him to bask in this pleasure.

“You know…” my master says lazily, “maybe keeping you as a love-slave isn’t such a bad idea. For a little while, anyway. I have a few more jobs to do, and it might be nice to keep some pussy with me while I’m traveling.” He grins as he pats my hip. “You would be up for that. Wouldn’t you, slave?”

My mind goes blank. “Of course, master.”

“Of course,” he smirks. “Of course…” His eyes close.

I know he’s planning to put me back into hypnosis. I patiently wait for the command to sleep.

But Flavio unexpectedly rolls onto his back, a lopsided smile on his face. He exhales softly, and then his breathing changes. He snores softly.

He’s asleep!

Surprised, I blink. Then I crane my neck to look at the other woman, on the far side of the bed. She appears to be naturally sleeping, too.

Well, this is unexpected.

Still firmly convinced I am a slave, I snuggle closer to my master, waiting for slumber to claim me, too.

*** *** ***

But somehow…

I don’t drift off.

As I lie there, my mind begins to absently think about chess positions. The Greenfield Defense… The Reti Opening Response… The Inverted Pawn Chain… The Queen’s Cross-Diagonal… And many others.

Slowly, my thoughts reassert themselves. I am coming out of my master’s spell. My mind is becoming active… although I am still largely hypnotized. I still believe I am a slave.

Confused, I slide out of bed. The soft moonlight streams through the window, onto my master’s two large suitcases. If I am to travel with him as his pet, I wonder, will my clothes fit in those cases? Or will I be forced to accompany him completely naked the whole way? I am curious about this, but strangely unalarmed at travelling across Europe in the buff.

There are papers on the end table, next to the suitcases. I lean over them. One is a receipt for a limo company, stating that one Flavio DiMarco – my master – is to be shuttled to the Vienna International Airport, tomorrow at seven PM. I guess he and I will be flying to our next destination together, then.

There is also a reservation slip; my master has an early dinner reservation in the hotel restaurant tomorrow evening at five PM. Huh.

But there is nothing else, nothing telling me what I really want to know: if I am to accompany my master, where will we be going?

*** *** ***

The rising sun stabs all our eyes a few hours later.

“Fuck!” my master mumbles, sitting up. “We fell asleep!”

Indeed we all did. I don’t remember it, but I must have returned to the bed and conked out after wandering about the suite last night.

“Both of you,” Flavio says urgently, “come here. Stand here.”

Ver and I get on our shaky feet, and stand before him, as ordered. My mind is jumbled, and I’m not sure what I’m doing.

Flavio, however, seemed alarmed. “Both of you,” he orders, “look into my eyes… Look, and relax…”

I gaze at him, and suddenly I feel my body relax. I am being lulled back into hypnosis.

“You are going deeper and deeper…” my master tells Ver and me. “Deeper and deeper, under my control…”

My own thoughts flutter, then fade. I am entranced again.

My master repeats his hypnotic patter, until he is satisfied that Ver and I can’t break free from his spell.

“Whew,” he sighs, finally relaxing himself. “Fuck me.”

Then come his commands. It seems that my master no longer wants me to accompany him on his journey. I don’t know why he changed his mind, but he has instructed me not to be concerned about this.

Instead, Ver and I are to put on our clothes, then leave his suite, never to return. We will depart the hotel, remembering the hypnosis, remembering the sex, remembering Flavio’s complete control over our minds. But we will have no shred of proof we can offer anyone about what has happened to us. We will be unable to report Flavio’s assault on our will, and we will spend the rest of our lives knowing how he beat us.

Ver and I listen to all of this, unable to resist a word.

“Now,” my master grins, enjoying the moment, “when I snap my fingers, you will awaken completely, and carry out my instructions without any hesitation. And don’t think about coming after me again, not unless you truly want to suffer. Get it?”

He snaps his fingers.

*** *** ***


	6. Endgame

I hunch over at the hotel bar, wishing the pushy bartender would just leave me alone. I order a second ginger ale, just to shut him up.

Its 5:15 PM, the day after my disastrous encounter with Flavio. I remember it all: my botched seduction scheme, getting hypnotized, becoming a sex slave, going to bed with the Italian… Most of all, I remember what I did with Ver.

Oh, God, Ver… I want to be sick.

Ver and I have been friends **_forever_**. She and I attended chess school together. I literally can’t remember a day of my life when I didn’t know her. I cringe inside as I remember how wonderful it felt when she…

The clinking of dishes interrupts my haunted thoughts, and I force myself back to the present. I’m in the restaurant off of Flavio’s hotel, and the place is filled with business travelers and tourists. Everyone seems to be talking about the soccer championship game last night, and no-one seems happy about how things went down. “Huber blew it, he absolutely fucked everything up!” rages one fat man two stools down from where I’m sitting. “I swear, if I ever root for Viennese football again, just shoot me.”

But I’m not interested in sports talk. I scan the crowd again, wondering if I’ve missed my quarry.

Wait. There he is.

Flavio strides into the main dining room, offering the maître d an Austrian schilling as he is led to his table. The hypnotist carries his coat over his arm, a small travel bag, and a newspaper. Now that I crane my neck a little, I can see his two large suitcases out in the lobby, watched over by a bellhop.

**_Finally!_** I was beginning to get worried.

I abandon my ginger ale, take a deep breath, and sling my tote bag over my shoulder. Then I smoothly walk across the dining room. Without being invited, I sit down at Flavio’s table, giving him my best poker face.

The Italian stares at me in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” he says.

Funny, Flavio is the same douchebag he’s always been, but now… Now he just isn’t as attractive as I remember him. His hair is thinning. He’s heavier than I recall. And is that acme on his face? How did I ever think this guy was handsome?

_Because he hypnotized you, dork,_ I remind myself.

Flavio huffs, setting aside his newspaper. “So, what is this?” he growls. “You come back for more humiliation?”

“Maybe,” I say levelly. “I largely wanted to say **_two things_** to you.”

“Uh-huh,” grunts Flavio. “What, to fuck off? Is that it?”

“First thing, Flavio DiMarco…” I reply, folding my hands in my lap. “I think you’re the worst human being I’ve ever met, and you should rot in hell for what you did to me.”

“Uh-huh,” the Italian snorts.

“They say,” I glower, “that rape victims can recover their self-esteem faster when they confront their attackers, even if the confrontation is unsuccessful.”

“Hey,” Flavio growls. “I didn’t **_rape_** you, okay? You were **_begging_** for it. Remember?”

“Only because you hypnotized me, Flavio,” I shoot back. “You assaulted my mind, made me helpless, then had your wicked way with me in bed. I didn’t consent to the sex; you mentally forced it on me.”

Flavio glances as the wait staff as they swirl about the other diners. Not one of them is listening to us.

So then the slimeball leans forward in his chair. He lowers his voice, so only I can hear him. “So what, bitch?” he snarls. “You know what? I could use another blow job before I head off to the airport. Maybe I’ll trance you again, right now. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

I stiffen. “You wouldn’t dare,” I say, forcing calm. “There are too many people about. Someone would notice you doing hypnosis to me. And you don’t want anyone to know that you do hypnosis, don’t you, Flavio?”

The Italian hesitates. “What do you mean?” he says, dangerously.

I sigh, shaking my head. “Oh, Flavio, Flavio,” I respond, laying on the drama. “You completely forgot Adolf Anderssen, didn’t you?”

Flavio searches his memory, drawing a blank. “Adolf **_who?_**”

“Adolf Anderssen,” I repeat. “The winner of the Immortal Game. I told you, back in Telavi, remember? The Immortal Game is the only chess match you ever need to study.”

The reporter cocks his head to one side, clearly thinking I’ve lost it.

“Let’s review, shall we?” I say gaily, helping myself to a dinner roll. “In the Immortal Game, Anderssen tricked poor old Kieseritzky. You recall how? Anderssen let Kieseritzky capture his most powerful pieces, all the while letting his lesser pieces sneak up and grab strategic positions.”

“Right,” Flavio mutters, impatient. “So?”

“So, I used the same tactic. Why not? Who, in my little squad of chess friends, would you say were the biggest threats to exposing your little hypnosis scheme?”

Flavio is silent.

“You probably saw me and Ver as the biggest problems, right?” I continue. “After all, you’d hypnotized the both of us before, had your way with us before, so we had the most to gain by taking you down. So – it was a big risk, I admit it – I put Ver and me right before you, tempting you to capture us.”

“Which I did,” Flavio points out.

“Which you did,” I admit. “I didn’t foresee that. Well played. But not well enough.”

Flavio stiffens. “What are you saying?”

“You remember last night, when you discovered your room key was gone?” I ask. “I was worried about how I was going to get it from you, but then you stupidly put it on the table, where it was easy to snatch. And while your back was turned, I slipped it to Cyn and Wendy, who were waiting for me, out in the street.”

“No,” objects Flavio.

“Yes!” I cry. “And while you were hypnotizing me and Ver and then shouting at the hotel’s elevator guard, my other two girls – my ‘lesser pieces,’ if you will – were up in your room, poking about, going through your suitcases. Looking at all those papers you keep in the big red suitcase. Taking pictures of those papers. Lots of interesting pictures.”

“You’ve led quite a career, haven’t you, Flavio?” I ask, leaning forward. “You have a crappy freelancer job as a sports reporter, yet you stay in vast, luxury suites when you travel. How can you afford that kind of expense, I wonder?”

“You…” Flavio mutters, at a loss for words.

“You have a nice little side business, that’s how,” I finish. “You lease your skills as a hypnotist out to the highest, shadiest bidders. And then you use your access to key sports players to hypnotize them to lose their games. You did it to me. You did it to Vivian LeFlores, French cyclist, before me. And…” And here, I nod at the businessmen about us, still upset about last night’s soccer game. “…you hypnotized Hans Huber to throw the Austrian Cup Final. **_Didn’t you?_**”

Flavio’s jaw tightens.

“Cyn and Wendy didn’t actually find the contract you had on me,” I admit. “But I’m guessing the Soviets hired you? To hypnotize me into losing my chess tournament? That sounds like something they would do.”

“You do realize,” growls Flavio, “that in about five minutes, you’ll be back in a hypnotic trance, calling me ‘_Master._’ You won’t remember any of this.”

I spread my hands. “So I’m right! Or are you as dumb as I first thought you were?”

“Of course, you’re fucking right,” Flavio bristles. “I’ll give you points for smarts, Nikki. But you’re really, really fucking stupid, too. I still control your mind.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I counter. “You remember what you wrote about my friend Wendy, the bookworm? _‘She’s indeed an impressive researcher.’_ Well, as part of her research, she unearthed this…”

I dig into my tote bag, unearthing the Vienna Library’s worn English copy of The Range of Hypnotic Behavior, 1965, Stanford University. By Dr. Ernst Hilgart, clinical psychologist.

“**_Fascinating_** reading,” I enthuse. “I particularly liked Chapter Seven, page 115.” Here I arch one eyebrow as I recite from memory: “_When suitable motivation is provided and the hypnotized subject understands the context in which they have been hypnotized, that subject is able to resist all unwanted hypnotic suggestions._”

“Its too bad that I hadn’t read that last night,” I conclude, setting the book down. “If I had, you never would have been able to trance me. Oh well. Sometimes you get the key piece of insight to win a match, just one move too late.” I fix Flavio with a steely glare. “But your days of hypnotizing me are over, Flavio DiMarco.”

The Italian’s jaw flexes. With a sudden motion, he waves a hand before my face, barking, “**_Sleep!_**”

For a second, just one second, I feel the urge to close my eyes, to surrender, to allow Flavio to command me. I nearly succumb.

But my will asserts itself, and soon I’ve brushed aside the Italian’s hypnotic assault. I’m free from his control, forever.

With a proud smirk, I lean back in my chair, folding my arms.

“So,” I say, loving the stunned expression on Flavio’s face, “we’ve reached endgame.”

“You bitch,” he growls. “You’ve got **_nothing_**, you do realize that? And if you so much as say a word about any of this to the press, I’ll sue for slander! I can hire the best lawyers! And who are you? A washed-up chess loser! No-one’s going to believe you.”

“Actually, they will,” I reply calmly. “But I won’t have to tell anyone. You know who are huge fans of Hans Huber?”

“Who?” Flavio says warily.

“Interpol,” I tell him. “They’ve been listening in to this whole conversation. Thanks to this little gizmo Cyn rigged up for me.”

I fold back the collar of my blouse, so Flavio can see the tiny body microphone tucked under there.

Flavio’s face drains of all color.

“It’s the Immortal Game, dude,” I say grandly, leaning forward again, so now I’m in his face. “You got distracted by the more prominent pieces, and you never saw the trap. Which brings me to the **_second_** thing I have to say to you.”

“What’s that?” Flavio whispers fearfully.

“Checkmate, bitch,” I say calmly.

That’s the signal. Four Interpol policemen, brandishing clubs and badges, swarm into the restaurant. They pounce on the quivering Flavio, slapping on the cuffs with an impressive vengeance.

*** *** ***

The uproar is immediate. Suddenly, it seems like all of Vienna is about to riot, now that they know their star football player was hypnotized to lose his game. The police whisk Flavio away to a high security prison, if only for his own safety. But I don’t think they are terribly concerned that his new quarters are comfortable.

The press gets a wind of the story, and soon there’s a partial accounting of Flavio’s other victims. I’m listed among them, of course, but thank God there’s no mention of me becoming Flavio’s sex slave. The Chess Federation is reluctantly forced to readmit me back into the ranks of the grandmasters. My loss to Tatiana Alexeyevna remains on the books, but that’s okay. I’ll have another shot at the title in two years.

My chess career restored, I now turn to the more serious damage from this whole affair.

*** *** ***

Ver has been avoiding me ever since we woke up from Flavio’s spell. At first, I was grateful, because I had to convince Interpol of my story and enlist their help in my little sting operation. Ver and the new emotions I have concerning her would have just gotten in the way.

But now…

Now that the dust from the Flavio DiMarco Scandal has settled, I can’t put off talking with Ver any longer.

Oh Jesus, every time I close my eyes, I can remember kissing Ver, pressing my naked body against Ver, pushing Ver’s lips to my oh-so-wet vagina. I remember that orgasm…

I want to slap myself.

Ver and I are old friends, the oldest and best I’ve ever had! What was it that Flavio told us?

_You know what destroys the foundation of a platonic female friendship?_ the asshole had asked us. _Sex. The emotional bond between you two will be badly cracked. In a week, you will never be able to be friends again._

Oh God. He might be right. What if he’s right? What good is putting Flavio behind bars and getting my chess career back if I’ve lost my best friend forever?

*** *** ***

Ver checked into a different hotel room of her own. I’m not sure where she got the money, but I don’t care. Summoning up all the courage I have, I quietly knock on the door.

Ver’s beautiful eyes grow wide when she opens the door and sees me. “Oh my God,” she mutters, and I can tell she’s been dreading this even more than I have.

“We have to talk,” I tell her.

*** *** ***

Ver and I sit side-by-side on the single bed, staring at the drab curtains. My mind is flooded by the images of sex, sex with my best friend. Its impossible to talk.

“Oh my God,” Ver suddenly says, on the verge of crying. “Nikki, I’m so, so sorry!”

I’m taken aback. “What?”

“Its my fault, its all my fault!” Ver says, clutching my arm. “If I hadn’t…”

“Calm down,” I implore her. “Can you just do that?”

Ver nods, reaching for the tissues. She hesitates, then begins to speak.

“Remember when you were training for the Silver Knight Tournament Finals?” she asks. “You were really in the zone, like, impressively in the zone. You were winning games like you were on fire.”

I nod. One of my better tournaments. If only they all went that way.

“So I backed off and gave you your space,” Ver explained. “You know how I can spaz out and hound you when you’re in competition? For once, I decided to step away. You seemed to appreciate it.

“And then, that was when I met Flavio,” she continues. “He contacted me through Bernie, who’d only been your agent for a week at that point. I met Flavio for drinks, to discuss your upcoming interview. And then…”

“And then, Flavio hypnotized you,” I supply.

Ver nods, her expression wretched. “I don’t know how. One minute, I was listening to him talk at the bar, thinking that his voice was so smooth and dreamy… and the next minute, I’m following him to his hotel room like a puppy. I was completely under his spell.”

“I know the feeling,” I remind her.

“You don’t get it,” Ver says crossly, wiping away the gathering tears. “Do you know how Flavio was able to get into my mind and use me so completely? Because he discovered something about me. Something I’ve always hid.”

Ver looks away. “I’ve always been in love with you,” she whispers.

I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.

“Wait… what?” I exclaim, with more shock than I probably should have betrayed.

“There,” gasps poor Ver. “I’ve said it. I love you, Nikki. I have for years.” She twists the Kleenex in her hands.

“But…” my head feels like its gonna spin off my shoulders. “But… for real, how…? Ver, you’re not gay. I introduced you to your last two boyfriends!”

“Oh, I like boys,” sniffs my friend. “But… I also swing the other way.”

In the softest, most vulnerable voices, she adds, “Don’t tell my parents, okay?”

Lost for words, I mere nod.

Ver blows her nose. “When you were climbing your way up into the chess world, I thought you were **_so amazing,_**” she tells me quietly. “You move those pieces on the board, and its like I can watch your genius unfolding before me. So incredible. And when you win, your face lights up in the most beautiful way. And even when you lose, you don’t seem to mind all that much. You’re **_such_** an amazing person, Nikki. I wish I was just like you.”

I don’t know what to say.

“I knew I loved you and I wanted to be with you… in **_that_** way… when I first saw you in competition,” my friend murmurs. “And I’ve never stopped loving you, Nikki. And I never will.”

Poor Ver suddenly starts weeping, really letting the tears flow. I am rocked to the core.

We sit in silence, with only a few inches between us… and yet miles apart.

I feel horrible. How did I now see any of this? Ver has been my best gal since… freakin’ forever! I’m supposed to be this supersmart genius. How did this one get under the radar?

“You’ll want a new chess coach,” Ver mumbled, composing herself. “Maybe I’ll get a coach myself and get into a tournament. And we might meet across the chessboard.” She sniffs. “Who knows?”

She’s ending it? She’s ending our relationship???

“Waitaminute, waitaminute,” I blurt out, wishing I could pause the clock to think about all of this.

“Nikki,” Ver whispers, her red eyes searching mine, “I’m never going to stop loving you. We can’t be just friends, not anymore. You get me?”

“I…” I stammer. “I… I don’t want to lose you, Ver.”

My friend smiles sadly, and places a tender hand on my arm.

“I don’t want to lose you either, Nikki,” she tells me.

However, Ver’s subtext is clear: _But **you’re** going to lose **me**._

Oh God, she’s seriously ending our friendship! I can’t… I can’t believe this.

“Give me a fucking minute, will you?” I say desperately.

Then, before Ver can respond, I lean forward and put my head my hands. My brain starts working like lightening.

But… this isn’t a chess problem! There’s no data, no positions, no analytical tactics to crunch here! There’s only emotions and personal history… and Ver. My brain is useless.

I’m surprised to feel tears in my eyes, too.

So I sit up, trying to clear my mind. Ver watches me, patiently.

“You know,” I say, not certain what is about to flow out of my mouth, “but I have to say it… Sex with you… was **_incredible._**”

The words hang in the air.

I lick my lips, suddenly unable to look at Ver directly. “I… I’ve only ever had sex with guys,” I babble. “Like, sloppy sex, but still pretty good sex, you know? But no-one wants to get laid by a chess champion. So maybe a lot of it was pity sex. Probably. Maybe. Maybe probably. I don’t know…”

Am I making the slightest bit of sense? God knows.

“But when you touched me…” I ramble on. “**_Oh my God_**, Ver, I had no idea my body could feel like that. No fucking clue! You were like…” (I’m not good with bedroom metaphors.) “…an angel, or something. I can’t stop thinking about how alive you made me feel. Like I’ve never felt before. Ever. Ever!”

Ver searches my face. “What are you saying?” she whispers.

“I guess,” I mumble, “that I care about you more than anything else in this world. And I’m open to new possibilities.”

Ver smiles sweetly. I smile back, and we both wrap our arms around each other.

*** *** ***


End file.
